will be all right, Carly. I'm so sorry this happened. I swear, I didn't know. I wouldn't do anything to upset you."
Brogan Byrne did upset her on so many levels and in so many ways. She curled her fists. Carly wanted nothing more than to roam her hands all over his damned gladiator chest and through the ebony and ivory silky hair on his head. She wanted to hold him close and protect him, but she also wanted to kick his stupid, careless ass. Her eyes roamed over the glorious torso on display.
Oh, daammmmnnnnn—
* * * *
Brogan released her arms and they returned to their seats. He honestly didn't know how the dope got in there. When did he last use that set of luggage? He had more than one. He racked his brain. Fourteen months ago on the southern tour, he got the weed in Kentucky. He remembered. Brogan really didn't know it was there. If he did, he would have smoked it long ago.
He could feel the irritation rolling off Carly like waves cresting at the beach. The emotion was beyond anger. He could sense her irritation. He also sensed something else. It was like she cared. Surely, he was mistaken. What could he say? She was right. He fecked up royally. He didn't like her being angry at him or disappointed. For her, he tried to be a better man, and he failed miserably.
Brogan's heart clenched. He didn't want her replaced. He had grown accustomed to her face, her voice, and her commanding presence. He liked the frank way in which she spoke to him and her no-nonsense attitude. Never mind those lush curves, sexy freckles, and her long, glorious legs. He closed his eyes and thought of the kiss on the beach again as he had been for the last ten days. He wanted to do more than kiss. Back in the VIP lounge at the Philly airport, he had thought he would fuck her for sport, a conquest. It no longer appealed. When Brogan's unused heart compressed in his chest, he knew. He was falling for her.
* * * *
Hotel Marquis De Montcalm
Downtown Montreal, Quebec, Canada
After being printed and charged in Toronto, Brogan's concert went off without a hitch. Of course it made the papers. There was a shot of him in cuffs being led into the police station. He had to call Nevan to tell him the details and to get him to explain to the rest of the family back home in Dublin. Explain what? That he made a fool of himself—again? He knew he would have to call his parents soon. Somehow talking to them about his mishaps would make it all too real. He would be the cover story for next week's Rock Reports magazine. Bloody great.
Brogan sat in his private suite. He glanced at the finger foods on the nearby table. The snacks didn't appeal. He wanted a drink or three. The concert at the Montreal Forum was tomorrow night. He would give credit to the Canadians fans. They didn't care about his arrest for drug possession. The story made more of a sensational splash in the States than it did here. Typical. When this tour was finished, maybe he should head back to Dublin for a while. He might have to if US Customs Service made a stink about his arrest. They could refuse him re-entry across the border. He wasn't a citizen. The American government could revoke his work visa. What a muck-shite mess.
* * * *
Carly stepped into the suite. She drew a sharp breath. She had been avoiding Byrne as much as she could since the arrest. The phone call to Nigel had not been pleasant. He blamed her as she knew he would. Her job hung in the balance, though Nigel didn't come right out and say so. The next day he called back and in a calmer tone stated he was giving her another chance. Did Byrne have anything to do with Nigel's change in mood?
Her gaze scanned over his stunning body. His tie-dyed undershirt hugged every muscled plane of his chest. She should walk away and continue to avoid him, but the forlorn look on his face drew her to him. The lost little boy thing he had going appealed.
Carly sat down on the leather sofa next to him. "You talked to Nigel, didn't you?
Brogan Byrne did upset her on so many levels and in so many ways. She curled her fists. Carly wanted nothing more than to roam her hands all over his damned gladiator chest and through the ebony and ivory silky hair on his head. She wanted to hold him close and protect him, but she also wanted to kick his stupid, careless ass. Her eyes roamed over the glorious torso on display.
Oh, daammmmnnnnn—
* * * *
Brogan released her arms and they returned to their seats. He honestly didn't know how the dope got in there. When did he last use that set of luggage? He had more than one. He racked his brain. Fourteen months ago on the southern tour, he got the weed in Kentucky. He remembered. Brogan really didn't know it was there. If he did, he would have smoked it long ago.
He could feel the irritation rolling off Carly like waves cresting at the beach. The emotion was beyond anger. He could sense her irritation. He also sensed something else. It was like she cared. Surely, he was mistaken. What could he say? She was right. He fecked up royally. He didn't like her being angry at him or disappointed. For her, he tried to be a better man, and he failed miserably.
Brogan's heart clenched. He didn't want her replaced. He had grown accustomed to her face, her voice, and her commanding presence. He liked the frank way in which she spoke to him and her no-nonsense attitude. Never mind those lush curves, sexy freckles, and her long, glorious legs. He closed his eyes and thought of the kiss on the beach again as he had been for the last ten days. He wanted to do more than kiss. Back in the VIP lounge at the Philly airport, he had thought he would fuck her for sport, a conquest. It no longer appealed. When Brogan's unused heart compressed in his chest, he knew. He was falling for her.
* * * *
Hotel Marquis De Montcalm
Downtown Montreal, Quebec, Canada
After being printed and charged in Toronto, Brogan's concert went off without a hitch. Of course it made the papers. There was a shot of him in cuffs being led into the police station. He had to call Nevan to tell him the details and to get him to explain to the rest of the family back home in Dublin. Explain what? That he made a fool of himself—again? He knew he would have to call his parents soon. Somehow talking to them about his mishaps would make it all too real. He would be the cover story for next week's Rock Reports magazine. Bloody great.
Brogan sat in his private suite. He glanced at the finger foods on the nearby table. The snacks didn't appeal. He wanted a drink or three. The concert at the Montreal Forum was tomorrow night. He would give credit to the Canadians fans. They didn't care about his arrest for drug possession. The story made more of a sensational splash in the States than it did here. Typical. When this tour was finished, maybe he should head back to Dublin for a while. He might have to if US Customs Service made a stink about his arrest. They could refuse him re-entry across the border. He wasn't a citizen. The American government could revoke his work visa. What a muck-shite mess.
* * * *
Carly stepped into the suite. She drew a sharp breath. She had been avoiding Byrne as much as she could since the arrest. The phone call to Nigel had not been pleasant. He blamed her as she knew he would. Her job hung in the balance, though Nigel didn't come right out and say so. The next day he called back and in a calmer tone stated he was giving her another chance. Did Byrne have anything to do with Nigel's change in mood?
Her gaze scanned over his stunning body. His tie-dyed undershirt hugged every muscled plane of his chest. She should walk away and continue to avoid him, but the forlorn look on his face drew her to him. The lost little boy thing he had going appealed.
Carly sat down on the leather sofa next to him. "You talked to Nigel, didn't you?
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